


Ain Melir Den Urui

by Thranduil Oropherion Redux (erynlasgalen1949)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erynlasgalen1949/pseuds/Thranduil%20Oropherion%20Redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After witnessing an unfortunate incident on the slopes of Mount Orodruin, Elrond and Thranduil must escape Mordor disguised as females.  And that's only the start of their problems.  Elrond; Thranduil; Caleborn; Celebrian; Galadriel.  Rated PG-13 for innuendo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fell Deeds Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of transformative fiction based on the world and characters of JRR Tolkien and a screenplay by Billy Wilder and IAL Diamond. This is done purely for my own enjoyment and that of my readers. No money is being made.

Thranduil loosed his bowstring and let fly, his arrow passing close enough to the head of Gil-galad's herald to ruffle his dark hair. By Elbereth, the slopes of Mount Orodruin were hot, but he was glad to be there. After seven years, the war against Sauron, the last of the great alliances between Elves and Men, was ending this day. And then he would either be dead or he could go home and never have to take orders from another supercilious _Golodh_ ever again.

* * *

Elrond felt the Silvan arrow lift his side-lock, and he knit his dark brows. Thranduil's _Laegrim_ were a difficult, insolent lot, the most difficult and insolent among them being their new King, but their volleys of arrows had all but cleared the field of orcs, leaving the upper slopes of the mountain free for the few hardy warriors who pursued Sauron to the heights, where sight of them had been lost among the shifting smoke and ash.

Elrond turned to give the upstart Greenwood King a glare, but at that moment the entire sky darkened and a hot blast of wind blew down from the upper slopes, blinding them all.

" _Huitho_!" he heard Thranduil say. "What in the name of Elbereth was that?"

In his awe, Elrond let the vulgarity in such close proximity to the name of the Lady Starkindler pass. "A Maia has just left his bodily form," he replied solemnly.

To Elrond's surprise, Thranduil let out a whoop and took off up the slope. Had he learned nothing from his father's rash decision that led to his demise and that of two-thirds of his troops? Giving a motion to the archers and other troops to hold their position, Elrond ran after him. He was worried about Ereinion.

* * *

Thranduil spared a glance behind him and noticed that the _Peredhel_ was following him. Either he wanted all the glory or he was worried about his cousin. If that was all there was to it. Whenever the name of the High King of the _Golodhrim_ was mentioned in connection with that of his herald, Thranduil's esquire, Galion, would roll his eyes and snicker. Galion's mind tended to the lowest level of interpersonal discourse. Of course, Galion usually was right. Thranduil merely wanted to make sure that if Sauron was dead, the job was done right. He'd had his fill of war.

Up ahead in the maze of sharp rocks and lung-searing fumes he heard voices.

"Ow-ow-ow!"

"Oh, don't be such a maiden, Isildur. It just came off a Maia's finger. Of course it's going to be hot."

Thranduil fought to place the second voice, which spoke in the odd lisping accent of the _Falathrim_.

"Get that thing away from me! Do you want to set my beard on fire? Now stop playing with it and listen carefully. This will be our story: Annatar killed Gil-galad, here, first, and then Elendil. You bravely rushed in, picked up your father's broken sword and finished the Dark Lord off. I counseled you to toss the Ring down the Cracks of Doom, but you refused, insisting on keeping it as a weregild for the death of your beloved father. Can you keep all that straight?"

"I suppose I can," Thranduil heard Isildur mumble. "It doesn't seem right, though."

"Of course it doesn't seem right, us allowing Gil-galad and Elendil to do all the work for us and then turning on them like that. Poor Ereinion looked so surprised when I stabbed him."

"No, I mean, why do I have to be remembered as the greedy prat when all of this was your idea?"

"Would you rather history remembered you as a patricide?" Círdan's tone, for with the mention of the beard, it could be none other, was patient, as if he were talking to a slow child. "But you know they weren't about to listen to reason. Ereinion was insisting that once Sauron was defeated, the One Ring go down the Crack and all his Noldor sail for Aman. I couldn't have that. This way, I still have my Ring of Power in good working order and a guaranteed job building ships for the next three Ages as the Elves trickle out of the Middle Lands. And you get to be King of the Northern Realm while you're still young enough to enjoy it."

"Papa always liked Anarion best," Isildur muttered darkly. "He deserved what he got. He put lifts in his boots, did you know that? Always had to be the tallest . . ."

"Yes," said Círdan soothingly. "What a shame about the sword shattering when you tipped that boulder on him. It was such a lovely blade."

Thranduil moved forward stealthily and peered round the rock. He took it all in: the two conspirators, the dead Man, the dead Elf and the scorched spot where the erstwhile Dark Lord had stood before being relieved of his digit. It was a blood chilling scene, but an even worse sight was that of Elrond Peredhel standing in the path and gawping.

* * *

Elrond could not believe his ears or his eyes. His King -- his cousin -- lay dead, and so did the King of the Men of the West, not so ridiculously tall now that he was lying flat. Lord Isildur stood tossing a bright gold object from hand to hand as if it were a hot potato, and Círdan conversed with him as matter-of-factly as if he were surveying this morning's catch of mackerel.

And then, something hit him from the side, and he rolled downhill, through dusty ash and over bare rock, until he fetched up behind a tall boulder, with Thranduil's hand over his mouth.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. I thought I heard someone say 'oof'."

"Look here -- there's a footprint in the ash. I'd recognize that hole in the sole anywhere after seeing that footprint outside Gil-galad's tent every morning for the past seven years. Elrond!"

"And here's another -- a light-Elven boot like the Silvans wear. I saw a flash of gold. Only two people in the entire army have hair that color, and Lord Glorfindel's back at Barad-dûr. Thranduil!"

Elrond heard Thranduil's teeth begin to grind. The voices moved past them.

"They saw us! We're lost! I'm putting on my Ring and -- aieee! Ow-ow-ow!"

"Isildur, don't be a lackwit. I'll deal with Elrond and Thranduil." The voices moved on, and when they were completely out of earshot, Thranduil removed his hand from Elrond's mouth.

"Why did you do that?" Elrond gasped, after he had taken his first frantic breath and then finished coughing out the volcanic fume. "I think you may have broken my rib."

"So they wouldn't see you, dolt. Not that it did much good."

"You're overreacting. It must be a misunderstanding. Uncle Círdan wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Is that so? In case you hadn't noticed, that was his fillet knife in your High King's back. _Ada_ always said, 'Never trust a fellow with a beard,' and now I know what he meant."

Elrond thought about it for a while and nodded. "I think you and I are in trouble."

* * *

"We're in big trouble," Thranduil said, as he rejoined Elrond at the edges of the camp. He kept his voice low -- not that they would be heard over the raucous sounds of celebration.

"What makes you say that again?"

"The fact that I found a gaffing hook plunged through the bolster I had left on my bed. I rather think someone thought I was in it at the time. He may be your dear old Uncle Círdan, but he has no reason to show me any mercy. In fact, I may be just a Silvan rustic, but I strongly suggest you do not even return to your tent. I doubt Isildur has any more fondness for you, distant nephew or not."

"What should we do, then?"

"Get out of here as soon as possible. I'll be all right once I get back to Eryn Galen and among my folk, but as I've just seen, there are too many opportunities for 'accidents' on the journey home. That is, if we travel as ourselves."

"You intend to travel incognito? That is easier said than done. Neither of us is exactly hard to recognize. What disguise would you suggest?"

"I don't know," Thranduil said. "I haven't had time to think about that part yet."

Elrond rolled his eyes. May the _Rodyn_ spare him from mad Silvans who made it up as they went. "Never mind. I think I have an idea."

* * *

"You cannot be serious, Elrond," Thranduil said as the two of them gazed upon a large traveling wagon whose banner proclaimed it as ' _Mistress Aiwen's All Female Minstrel Troupe_ ' in gilt-edged _tengwar_ , now slightly tarnished from the fumes of Mordor. "You and I dress up as women? It's preposterous."

"That's the beauty of it," Elrond insisted. "Círdan and Isildur would never think to look for us among the camp followers, who will certainly be bringing up the rear of the train while Círdan rides at its head. I happen to know that Mistress Aiwen is currently short two musicians -- her harpist and a flautist. Tathryn ran off with a Dwarf. I suspect they have hidden attributes. I don't know what happened to Mireth."

"You seem to be more than passing familiar with the entertainers," observed Thranduil darkly. Elrond's long unmarried state and his fondness for his cousin had not bespoken much enthusiasm to the fairer sex.

"Oh, I do love the merry tunes," Elrond replied, oblivious. "And the costumes are so pretty."

"And there we have our first problem," Thranduil said, gesturing down at his gore-splattered armor. "We haven't exactly the wardrobe for the part."

"That's the least of our problems," said Elrond, and indeed it was. Amidst the victory celebration, unattended female attire was in great supply in the camp that night. Thranduil and Elrond managed to outfit themselves nicely without even having to resort to robbing wash lines.

* * *

"So which of you lovely ladies is the harpist?" Mistress Aiwen enquired brightly.

Elrond blanched behind his bright sapphire hair ribbons that matched his gown. Thranduil had been very proud of himself for the Silvan stealth that had allowed him to snatch the outfit practically out from under the noses of a sporting couple the night before, and Elrond had proclaimed the ribbons just the perfect touch. Thranduil felt that he himself must look absolutely ridiculous in his green high-necked woolen dress with the tight bodice and the flounced skirt, although Elrond had opined that he looked quite fetching. This only made Thranduil more uncomfortable.

Amid all the talk of wardrobe, they had neglected to discuss the particulars of their hoped for jobs as minstrels. Elrond did not even know if Thranduil could play a musical instrument at all.

"I play the harp, Mistress," Thranduil put in quickly, remembering to keep his voice high.

"Very good, ah, what did you say your name was?"

"Randiriel, Mistress," said Thranduil.

"That must mean you're the flautist," she said, turning to Elrond, who nodded.

"Ronneth is renowned for her technique with the flute. She has a very tight embouchure," Thranduil said sweetly, earning himself a glare from the _Peredhel_.

Mistress Aiwen turned her gaze to him and raised an eyebrow as well. It took Thranduil a while to understand what she found amiss, and then he quickly uncrossed his legs from their wide ankle over knee stance and put his feet primly together, smoothing his skirts with what he hoped was a maidenly smile.

"Let me hear your singing voices."

Elrond went first, producing a breathtakingly lovely falsetto version of _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_ that brought tears to Mistress Aiwen's eyes. Impressed, Thranduil thought to himself that Elrond should really get up an act and take it on the road, before realizing that, indeed, he just had.

"Your turn, Randiriel."

Thranduil cleared his throat and pitched his voice as high as Elvenly possible. " _When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown; When straw is gold, and ear is white --_ "

"Enough!" cried Mistress Aiwen, whose visage had turned rather white too. "I think we'll have to reserve your voice for the low parts. Do you have any other talents?"

"Why . . . I can do this," said Thranduil. He picked up three stones from the dirt beside the wagon and began to juggle. He was rather good at it, although he was more used to nuts, nuts being plentiful at home in Eryn Galen. In his concentration, he failed to notice that the action of his elbows set the two potatoes he had nicked from outside a Númenorean mess-tent and stuffed down the front of his bodice to jiggling.

"A very interesting talent indeed," Mistress Aiwen said, her eyes wide. "Oh, well, beggars can't be choosers. You both are hired. I doubt we'll be doing many shows in the next month or so -- just enough to earn our keep in the caravan home."

As they all rose, she stopped them. "One more thing. I don't care what you two ladies do elsewhere, but I have a strict rule -- no men in the sleeping wagon. I'll not have any tales told of deeds of lust among Mistress Aiwen's All Female Minstrels."

Elrond and Thranduil exchanged a look. "Seldom?"

"Not seldom -- never. If I find that rule being broken, the consequences will be severe, I assure you."

Thranduil gulped. "Yes, Mistress Aiwen," he and Elrond said in unison.

* * *


	2. Girls Will Be Girls

"Ouch, Ronneth, you're doing it too hard!" cried the elf-maiden.

Although, Thranduil had privately expressed doubts about the 'maiden' part, and after a week with Mistress Aiwen's troupe Elrond was inclined to concur. He quickly eased off on his pace with the hairbrush. "Sorry, Gwaeloth." Maiden or not, he loved the feel of her hair through his fingers, and the light golden color, so unlike his own, fascinated him.

Once they had left the camp, at the end of the train, a full two days after he and Thranduil had watched with relief as Círdan rode out in the vanguard and Isildur peeled off to the south, ostensibly to counsel his nephew in the governance of Gondor, the time had passed with ease. The troupe put on an abbreviated show each night. Gwaeloth sang with the sweetness of the Vanyarin choirs that serenaded Lady Elbereth on the slopes of Taniquetil themselves, with Elrond tootling his flute dutifully in accompaniment. Lalie shook her tambourine and Eleniel stoked the strings of her viol. Thranduil strummed his harp and mouthed the words, while Mistress Aiwen looked on with a smile and counted the gold thrown down by those soldiers who wished to sit closest to the makeshift stage.

Much to Elrond's surprise, Thranduil's post show juggling act had proved to be very popular, drawing in crowds who sat in rapt fascination, with their eyes fixed on a point lower than the objects flying about Thranduil's busy hands. One cheeky fellow had even managed to toss a gold coin down the bodice of 'Randiriel's' dress, causing Thranduil to startle and miss his catch. The object was fortunately just a gourd, rather than Mistress Aiwen's good glass goblets, which hit the ground and burst, splattering the first circle of the audience with seeds and squash innards. Still intent on Randiriel's bouncing potatoes, they didn't seem to mind a bit.

"Do me next, Ronneth," Lalie piped in. "You're always so gentle. And so helpful. Unlike that stuck-up Randiriel."

"Yes, Randiriel," Elrond said, smoothing the soft nightdress that Gwaeloth had given him out of gratitude for his nightly attentions to her tresses, "why are you such a killjoy?"

This earned him a grunt -- in careful falsetto -- from behind the closed curtain of the upper bunk 'Ronneth' and 'Randiriel' shared. Elrond could picture Thranduil lying curled tightly, still wearing his stolen shift because he had been too miserly to spend any of his pay (admittedly small) or the coins tossed down his bodice on new attire. This was his pattern every night after the lady minstrels finished their show and retired to the privacy of their shared wagon to relax.

"It will be my pleasure, Lalie," Elrond said smoothly. No sooner were the words out, than he felt something soft swat him in the back of his head. He turned to see Eleniel reclining on her bunk in the indolent pose of a Haradren harem girl, her pillow still in her hand.

"Am I of no account, then, Ronneth?" she said. "Am I as insubstantial as Lord Manwë's winds, or as invisible as a night without Lady Elbereth's stars? My hair needs brushing too."

"Why of course not, you are --"

"Oh no you don't, you vixen," Lalie interrupted him, giving Eleniel a blow with her own pillow that left little poofs of down floating in the air. "She's mine next."

"Girls, there's enough of me to go round," Elrond protested, only to have Gwaeloth's pillow smack the top of his head and her arm encircle his waist from behind.

"How quickly you forget me, faithless Ronneth," she said, dropping her pillow and bringing her other hand around to delve into the front of his stomach.

"Tickle fight!" the other two exclaimed, attacking him from the front. Elrond felt slim feminine fingers stroking the sides of his neck, working at his armpits, and brushing his sides. Always horribly ticklish from the earliest days of his childhood, it was all Elrond could do to fend them off ineffectually and concentrate on keeping his helpless giggles high-pitched.

He clamped his arms to his sides, but that left his chest and belly unprotected in a three to one contest. The girls laughed and squealed, with their limbs visible beneath the fabric of their shifts and dressing robes. And then, as the touches moved lower, Elrond began to understand the reason behind Thranduil's unsociability and hunched posture.

"Ladies, don't make me come out there," called Mistress Aiwen from her more spacious private cubicle at the back of the wagon, after an especially piercing shriek.

' _Yes, please Elbereth, do not come out here, Mistress Aiwen,_ ' Elrond pleaded silently. Already the thin fabric of his nightgown was threatening to reveal his predicament. He broke free and made a desperate lunge for the top bunk. In the process he landed on top of Thranduil who, almost certainly noticing the reason for his hasty exit let out an outraged, "Hey!" and began to struggle.

To Elrond's dismay, the three girls followed and renewed their attack in earnest. Only one thing left to do -- Elrond grabbed hold of Thranduil as a shield and rolled the two of them out the propped open wooden flap that provided ventilation for their bunk.

They hit the ground with a hard thump. Fortunately, Thranduil, on the bottom, broke their fall.

"Oh my goodness -- are you all right?"

Elrond looked dazedly up into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen and a radiant face framed by twin waterfalls of silver-blonde hair. "Are you a Maia?" he whispered in awe.

"No, silly," the vision of loveliness said with a tinkling laugh. "I'm an elf like you."

"What's going on, sugar?" came a booming voice out of the darkness.

"Nothing, _Ada_. I was just getting a little air and this girl fell out of the wagon." She turned back to him. "I'm Celebrían."

"El -- er, Ronneth," said Elrond, remembering that he was, indeed, supposed to be a girl.

"So very pleased to meet you," said the father, a tall elf with hair the same color as his daughter's. "We just joined the train tonight." He gestured back vaguely toward a large and luxuriously appointed traveling wagon where two exhausted looking grooms were unhitching the team of horses.

"Celeborn!" A woman with impossibly gold hair stuck her head out the wagon's door. "What is that infernal racket?"

"Nothing, my dear. Go back inside. Don't trouble yourself." He turned back to Elrond. "I was with the army, but my family spent the duration of the war in Belfalas. We're returning north to Lórien. I suppose it's Amroth's realm now," he finished with an eloquent sigh.

"Will you, for the love of the _Rodyn_ , get your big arse off of me?" came a muffled voice from below.

"Oh, sorry," said Elrond, scrambling to his feet. Before he could offer a hand, Celeborn stepped in between.

"Oh my, and who have we here?"

Thranduil's reply was too soft to be audible, but Elrond could have sworn it was, " _Huitho._ "

* * * 


	3. Oh Careless Love!

Thranduil felt himself taken by the hand and hauled to his feet.

"Ah, so very tall. I like that in a woman," said the Elf-lord, eyeing Thranduil in the manner of a hungry warg surveying a haunch of venison. "I am Celeborn, Prince of Doriath and Lord of Ost-in-Edhil. Alas, both are no more. I shall be but a humble guest in Amroth's realm."

Thranduil resisted a roll of his eyes. Whenever Celeborn's name had come up in conversation, Oropher had usually snorted and muttered the phrase, 'Pompous horse's behind.' Although, being the plain-spoken sort, he had often used a word stronger than 'behind'. Clearly, his late father had spoken true.

"Randiriel." Thranduil felt Elrond jab him in the ribs. "Remember your manners."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Thranduil said tersely, wishing Celeborn would look him in the eye rather than the chest. Fortunately, he had not yet taken his potatoes out for the night.

"The name evokes the sweet sound of the Vanyar singing," Celeborn said with a sigh.

"You flatter me overmuch. And I think you can let go of my hand now."

Celeborn smiled and complied.

Thranduil dropped a stiff curtsey. "If my lord will forgive me, it is time Ronneth and I returned to our beds." He turned and dragged a reluctant Elrond back towards the steps of the wagon. Celebrían gazed after them with a wistful smile on her lips.

In the lee of the wagon, Elrond took his elbow and held him back. "Did you see her?"

"The infamous Lady Galadriel? No, you were on top of me, blocking my view, but just the sound of her voice was enough to wither me for the next _ennin_. Now I understand why _Ada_ moved us north. Twice."

"No, not her -- Celebrían."

At the tone in Elrond's voice, Thranduil almost blurted out his first thought, ' _You're interested in a girl?_ ' before catching himself. Would wonders never cease? "Yes, she's pretty enough if you like blondes, which, I guess, you do."

"She's beautiful." Then he sighed.

"In that case, pay her court. Oh, wait -- you're in a dress and officially have no _gweth_. That may prove to be an impediment to your suit."

"It isn't that," Elrond said morosely. "It's my blood. She's the daughter of a princess from the House of Finwë."

"I fail to see what's wrong with your blood. You're the great-grandson of the High King of the Grey-elves and descended from that same Finwë. You could probably lay claim to the High Kingship of both the _Golodhrim_ and the Grey-elves here in the Middle-lands if you chose to press the issue." Here Thranduil paused, with an unwelcome feeling of envy. King though he might call himself, he knew all too well that he was but one generation removed from a commoner. "Besides, I imagine your blood will flow red enough if Isildur and Círdan ever get within striking distance."

"But I'm . . ." Elrond paused, again allowing Thranduil's mind to fill in the blank. "I'm a _Peredhel_."

"So?"

"Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn will no doubt wish their daughter to wed with someone who can give them grandchildren who will not be mortal at the whim of fate. She is above me."

He sounded so forlorn that Thranduil had no answer to that. He merely gave Elrond a brotherly pat on the shoulder. "Come inside. We should sleep now."

* * *

Thranduil caught the third of his flaming torches and extinguished it in a handy barrel of water with a dramatic hiss. He took a bow and exited to enthusiastic applause. "I told you I'd find a way to make them watch something other than my chest," he whispered aside to Elrond.

"I hate to break it to you, Randiriel," Elrond shot back, "but they were still staring at your chest."

Thranduil made a sour face, which became even sourer as Lord Celeborn and his family approached them.

"Wonderful show! Splendid," he enthused, "especially the juggling act at the end!"

"I don't know, _Ada_ ," said Celebrían with a shy smile directed at Elrond. "I liked the first part of the show. With the singing."

"Wait until we get back to Lothlórien," Galadriel said. "You'll hear real singing then, as only the Noldor can. Proper singing, dancing and feasting. And maybe time for some courting. It's high time you found yourself a husband, young Missy, now that the war is over. I don't want it whispered that you're likely to have a strange fate." Oblivious to her daughter's uncomfortable fidgeting, she gave a dramatic sigh and a nostalgic smile spread over her face. "How fondly I remember those days when your father, entranced by my beauty, courted me back in Doriath! Alas, those days are long vanished, and our thoughts have turned to other things, as is proper. Isn't that so, dear?"

"Indeed, my pet -- other things," said Celeborn who had managed to edge over to the two 'lady minstrels'. He gave Thranduil a surreptitious pinch on the behind, making Thranduil look him askance and sidle hastily out of range.

"It's so nice that Celebrían can make friends on the journey. I'll leave you young ones to your girlish talk," said Galadriel. "Come, Celeborn."

Off she went, with her reluctant mate in tow. Immediately, Thranduil bolted for the sanctuary of the wagon as if his arse was on fire and his hair was about to catch, leaving Elrond and Celebrían alone together.

"I apologize for _Nana_ ," Celebrían said. "She's vexed that we didn't join the train in time to be riding at the very head with Amroth of Lórien." She lowered her voice. "I think she hopes to marry me off to him now that he's king of that realm."

Suddenly Amroth, who Elrond had always felt to be a likeable if harmless chap, became his worst enemy. "Would you like to marry Amroth and be a queen?"

"I don't know. He's nice enough. I suppose I'll have to. You wouldn't understand duty, Ronneth, not being royal and all. But . . ." Here she paused and sighed. "When I saw you and Gwaeloth singing that duet of _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_ tonight -- and however do you get your voice so nice and low? -- I thought, how wonderful to be able to do something so beautiful. To just be free and make people happy. I wish I could be a singer like you!"

"I think, perhaps that could be arranged," Elrond said, his mind racing with the possibilities. At the very least he'd have an excuse to spend some time with this lovely maiden. "If you can find a way to slip away and meet me, we can come up with something that will surprise everyone."

"Really?" Celebrían beamed. "Ronneth, you're the best friend a girl ever had!"

* * *

The next afternoon, Mistress Aiwen took Thranduil aside for a talk in her private cubicle at the rear of the wagon.

"Randiriel, there will be no show tonight. Lord Celeborn has requested your company for the evening."

"No need to cancel the entertainment on my account, Mistress Aiwen. I have absolutely no wish to take the moonlight with Lord Celeborn."

Mistress Aiwen frowned. "Perhaps you should put aside your personal feelings and reconsider -- for the good of the troupe."

They sat in silence for a while, as the wagon creaked and swayed its way northward. Thranduil pondered the meaning of her words -- all too clear -- and recalled the previous time he had sat at Mistress Aiwen's little table. "But, Mistress, I thought that seldom were tales of lust told of your all female minstrels."

"First of all," she replied with a sweet smile, "the word was 'seldom'. Second, I said no men in the wagon. What happens on the banks of the Anduin is none of my concern. What harm could there be in an innocent walk in the moonlight? And third, this is Lord Celeborn we are discussing. We reach Lothlórien in two days, and his continued goodwill shall be important to us during our stay. Truly, Randiriel, all that is required of you is that you be pleasant. What more did you think I was suggesting?"

Thranduil had a coarse term for it, but he exercised over two thousand years worth of princely diplomacy. "Nothing, Mistress," he replied meekly.

* * *

"Hold still, Randiriel," said Lalie, giving Thranduil's left braid a tug. "I'm almost finished."

"You're such a lucky girl," added Gwaeloth.

"You have no idea," Thranduil replied. He found himself both surprised and touched by the attention the other ladies of the troupe were paying him since his assignation with Celeborn had slipped out. 'Ronneth' had disappeared almost the moment the wagons had stopped for the night.

"Well, I wouldn't say no to him. Lord Celeborn can park his light elven shoes next to my bed any time he likes."

"He isn't my type," Thranduil said sourly.

"What _is_ your type, Randiriel?" said Eleniel, giving him a speculative look.

"I haven't met the lucky --" He barely caught himself. "-- man yet, but he won't be married, that is a certainty."

"Oh, pooh," said Lalie. "Don't be so picky. There you go -- I'm finished. How do you like it?"

Thranduil examined his blurry reflection in the polished tin mirror of the wagon's tiny dressing table with a sense of disquiet. He looked almost . . . beautiful. "Nice. Thank you," he muttered.

"Much finer than mortal -- or immortal -- man deserves," exclaimed Lalie happily.

"Before you go, Randiriel, take this." Gwaeloth held out an object that looked rather like a baton with the feathers of an exotic bird waving off the end.

"What's this?"

"A fan."

"Why would I need a fan on a cool, dark night in _Ivanneth_?"

Gwaeloth let out a tinkling laugh and flipped the fan open. Her eyes peered coyly at him over the feathered top. "It's to flirt from behind, silly. You are very new to this, are you not?"

"Again, you have no idea. Thank you." Thranduil accepted the fan. No doubt he would wish to be hiding his expression frequently during the evening. "All right -- I'm off, then."

' _The sacrificial virgin goes forth_ ,' Thranduil thought to himself as he hopped down from the wagon's tall step onto the soft ground. He had not gone more than a few steps when Lord Celeborn materialized from behind a tree.

"Well met, my lovely one," said Celeborn.

Thranduil barely had time to mumble out his polite reply before the lord had him by the elbow and was propelling him away from the grouped wagons.

"I must say, Randiriel, you look very fetching tonight. And what is that enticing scent you're wearing?"

Thranduil took a careful sniff. Perfume had not been among his lady colleagues' gifts to him that night. All he wore was man-sweat -- Elf-man-sweat to be sure -- and nervous at that. "I think you're smelling the river."

"Oh no, it's something far more elusive. It brings to mind the cook tents of the Westmen and those delicious starchy tubers they brought with them from the fall of the Land of Gift."

Thranduil gulped and decided it was time he replaced his bosoms.

Celeborn led them to a spot overlooking the river. He sat down on a fallen tree and patted the bark beside him. Thranduil sank down gingerly, keeping as much distance as possible. To no avail --Celeborn snaked an arm about his waist and dragged him so close their hips were touching.

"Randiriel," he said by way of a conversational opener, "my wife does not understand me."

"Oh, I am so very sorry to hear that, my lord," Thranduil replied sweetly. "I would have supposed that after almost four thousand years together, a man's helpmeet ought to understand him very well indeed."

"I fear we just grew apart over the ages."

Before Thranduil could succumb to the temptation of asking what part the Lady Galadriel had grown, Celeborn moved even closer. "A man has needs, Randiriel." He punctuated his sentence by making a grab for Thranduil's upper thigh.

"Oh, you!" simpered Thranduil and gave Celeborn a playful swat with his closed fan.

Celeborn picked himself up out of the dirt and shook his head as if clearing it of stars. "A feisty one! I like that in a woman. Now, as I was about to say --"

"CELEBOOOORN . . ." A voice that could have shattered one of Feanor's fabled jewels pierced the night. "Celeborn, where are you? That was the longest tinkle in the history of Arda!"

Thranduil quickly flipped open his fan to hide his sudden smile.

With a sigh, Celeborn raised Thranduil's hand to his lips and kissed the backs of his fingers. "Alas, I fear our evening must come to a premature end. However, there will be other . . . opportunities. Until later, my sweet."

As the tall, silver-haired figure trudged dejectedly off toward the wagons, Thranduil almost felt a fleeting sympathy for Celeborn. Almost.

On the way back to the camp, Thranduil met up with Elrond, who himself stepped out of the trees.

"Spying on me?" Thranduil said peevishly.

Elrond shook his head.

"Draining the dragon?"

Again, Elrond gave his head a negative shake. "No, I was with Celebrían."

"You dog," said Thranduil, giving Elrond a glare. "If you break that girl's heart . . ."

"It's nothing like that. We're just working on a little project together. If anyone's heart is to be broken, it will most likely be mine."

"That is all it had better be," Thranduil warned. "Come on and do something useful for a change. Stand guard for me. After tonight, I really need a bath."

The two of them moved even further away from camp and possible spying eyes. Thranduil took out his potatoes, stripped off his clothing, and with a running leap he grabbed his knees and cannon-balled into the river.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _Gweth_ : Manhood  
>  _Ennin_ : Yen, a Long-year, 144 years


	4. Heaven Help the Working Elleth

"Goodness, what a lot of flowers!" exclaimed Eleniel.

"I don't think goodness had anything to do with it," Gwaeloth said with a snigger. "Randiriel must have been a naughty girl last night."

"But . . . all we did was talk," said Thranduil, looking around in confusion. He and Elrond had awakened late to discover that the sleeping wagon resembled a flower-seller's stall in a Gondorian market.

"Whatever you say, dear. Lord Celeborn's footmen left this for you too." She handed Thranduil a black velvet sack and raised her eyebrow in a knowing look.

Thranduil opened the sack and let out a slow whistle through his teeth. "White gems!" He slipped the bracelet over his wrist and turned his hand this way and that to catch the sparkle. "My favorite."

He suddenly became aware that the three girls were staring and wearing identical smirks. Even Elrond was eyeing him speculatively. With his cheeks and ears flaming, Thranduil bowed and retreated to his bunk.

* * *

 

Their entry into Lothlórien was anticlimactic, as indeed Galadriel said repeatedly, in slightly more oblique terminology. Their two wagons split off from the column, which continued to trudge on northward, while the parties of Lord Celeborn and Mistress Aiwen took barges across the Anduin to the western bank. From there, they were led by a small escort of wardens to Caras Galadhon itself, where young King Amroth met them at the foot of the Royal _Mallorn_ with a smile that looked, to Elrond's eyes, to be tightly nailed on around the edges.

A silver-clad footman led Mistress Aiwen and her crew to a sumptuous _flet_ "courtesy of Lord Celeborn". At the bottom of the stairway, Thranduil took Elrond's elbow and drew him aside.

"So, what's the plan?"

Elrond looked sadly across the gap just in time to catch the trailing hem of Celebrían's gown as she disappeared into Amroth's palace. "I don't know. The intelligent thing to do would be to steal some trousers and hie ourselves on north, but . . ."

"But?"

"I know I have a snowflake's chance in Orodruin of ever winning her but . . ."

"Hope springs eternal?"

"I suppose you could put it that way," said Elrond with a sigh.

"Don't worry. I have decided to tarry for a time myself."

"What?"

Thranduil drew back the sleeve of his gown to reveal the glittering bracelet of white gems. "Have you any idea how expensive it is to raise and outfit an army?" He paused. "I daresay you do, but, correction -- have you any idea how expensive it is to raise an army in an economy that runs on nuts and furs? _Ada_ near to bankrupted the treasury doing it. A few more of these little trinkets and Eryn Galen will be set for the next Age."

"I've heard of the duties of royalty," Elrond said, "but this price is steep."

Thranduil shrugged. "I think I can keep the old coot at arm's length for a while longer."

Elrond shrugged in return. "You Silvans are a practical lot, I'll grant you that."

Thranduil grinned and gave his bodice a tug that shifted his potatoes back to center. "Fix your hair, Ronneth. You have a side-curl coming undone. We girls are in for the duration."

* * *

"I need a favor from you," said Elrond. He stopped in the doorway and did a double-take. "Sweet Elbereth, not more flowers! This room is starting to smell like a Haradren brothel!"

"Recognize the scent do we?" said Thranduil cattily. He was sitting at the dressing table of the room the two of them now shared, buffing his nails and painting his lips with berry juice. "I think you're just jealous because I'm prettier and get all the attention."

"Some of us don't want that kind of attention," Elrond grumbled. "Your juggling act last night was a disappointment. They still all looked at your chest."

Thranduil sighed. "Who knew? I thought juggling Dwarven axes would do the trick for sure. I could have lost a finger, or worse, and no one cared! Mark my words, though, I'll come up with something that will make them all pay attention. Wait until tomorrow night."

"I'm sure we're all dying to see," said Elrond sourly.

"You're in a mood this afternoon. What's gotten up your backside?"

"What's gotten up yours, more like."

"Very funny. Now what was that favor you wanted?"

"It's about Celebrían," Elrond said. "We're working on something together -- a surprise -- but it's almost impossible to get any privacy. She says her father has a special _talan_ off on the western edges. He calls it his 'workshop'."

"Hmm . . . I wonder what he makes there? I hadn't figured his Lordship for the handy type." The sarcasm in Thranduil's tone was impossible to miss.

"That isn't important. Celebrían says we could go there tonight. All we need is to make sure that someone keeps Celeborn away so that he doesn't walk in on us. If you could just distract him . . ."

Thranduil put down his nail buffer. "What a coincidence! It so happens I have an appointment to take yet another moonlight stroll with Lord Celeborn tonight after the show. You know, don't you find it odd how the moon always seems to be full here in Lothlórien? But trust me, Elrond, the last thing I want is to let him get me alone in his 'workshop'. You two should be safe enough."

* * *

"Life in the Golden Wood seems to suit you, Randiriel," said Celeborn as he stepped out from behind the trunk of a giant _mallorn_. "You're blooming like a rose!"

Thranduil resisted the urge to adjust his bodice. He had finally disposed of his potatoes, now become desiccated, and had replaced them with two medium-sized yellow fruits he had found packed in sawdust in a crate marked with Haradren lettering and set out behind the royal kitchen. Evidently the war in the south had awakened exotic tastes. The spherical fruits were larger than their predecessors, and the effect on the crowd at tonight's show had been spectacular. Thranduil now had five new gold coins to add to his growing hoard.

"And you're wearing a new scent," Celeborn continued, sniffing the air. "Citrusy, yet light."

Thranduil crooked a finger and placed it under Celeborn's chin to bring his gaze upward to eye level. "You flatter me, my lord." Then he blinked. "My lord, what in the name of Elbereth is on your head?"

Celeborn wore a triangular hat that seemed to have been folded out of some kind of metal, either silver or tin, that had been beaten paper thin.

"Oh, that." Celeborn gave a little nervous laugh. "Now that we are back in Lothlórien my wife has access to her mirror. The foil head covering interferes with the reception. A man is due a little privacy, do you not think?"

With that, he took Thranduil about the waist and led the two of them toward the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, staying close to the trunks of the huge _mellyrn_ , avoiding big roots and the gazes of the other inhabitants. At length they came to a large pond with a stand of trees on its opposite shore.

"Yonder lies my private _talan_ ," said Celeborn, "where you and I will have the opportunity to deepen our understanding. I have many examples of fine art I would like to show you, including an ancient Doriathrin artifact which I think you will find very interesting."

"Oh no, my lord, that would be quite impossible," Thranduil simpered. He could imagine what ancient Doriathrin artifact Lord Celeborn had in mind and he had no wish to see it. Ever.

"But why, my pet? What harm could there be in some innocent art appreciation?"

"We have no chaperone," Thranduil explained. "I'm an old-fashioned type of girl. My _naneth_ raised me right -- to obey the Laws and Customs brought to us by the Wise-elves from the West. I could never be alone in a private dwelling with a man who is not my betrothed. And a married man at that!"

"And if we were betrothed?"

"But that can never be, for even if -- Valar forbid! -- your dear wife were to pass to Mandos, you would still be a married man. And in the words of the Laws, _'it shall not be lawful for any of the Eldar to judge his own case.'_ " said Thranduil piously. Thank the aforementioned Valar that the idiocy of the _Golodhrim_ was, for once, coming in handy.

Celeborn looked thoughtful. "My wit accepts the truth of this, but my heart, quite overcome by your beauty, says quite another thing. Is there any possibility I might entice you to change your mind?"

"About the same likelihood as Feanor being released from Mandos and rehoused."

"Aha, so there is a chance!" Celeborn exclaimed. "Trust me, _meleth_ , I can be very persuasive." To bring the point home, he fingered the glittering white gems around Thranduil's wrist.

"I don't doubt that," replied Thranduil. "Just not tonight."

"Then how will we pass the time together?"

"We can . . ." Thranduil cast about for an activity that would keep Lord Celeborn occupied and himself out of harm's way. "We can dance! Surely you dance, here in Lothlórien?" He had seen King Amroth and his court dancing under the _mellyrn_ , doing stately pavanes on the grass.

"Indeed we do, my pet," said Celeborn and swept Thranduil against his chest, bending him back almost horizontal.

"My lord, what dance is this?" Thranduil squeaked. "I am unaccustomed to dancing quite so close."

"It is a step done in certain Gondorian gentlemen's clubs for the purpose of breaking the ice and deepening friendships. It is called the Tan-goh."

So much for arm's length. Thranduil felt a juicy trickle running down toward his navel. It would be back to the potatoes on the morrow. He looked across the waters of the pond toward the _talan_. _'Curse it, Elrond,'_ he thought. _'I hope your little assignation is worth it.'_

* * *

Elrond lurked beneath Celeborn's _talan_ , careful to keep the thick trunk between him and the line of sight from the approach. He waited and he waited. He had begun to think he'd been stood up when Celebrían appeared, breathless, out of the twilight shadows.

"I'm so sorry, Ronneth," she said. "Mother and I were taking an after dinner drink with Amroth, and it took me forever to slip away."

She led the way up the simple wooden ladder to the _talan_ , and Elrond followed, feeling out of sorts at the mention of his rival. His rival -- whom was he fooling? A halfblood of dubious political authority and a chequered past had no hope of achieving the hand of Lady Galadriel's daughter.

Lord Celeborn's 'workshop' had no furnishings other than a very large bed, freshly made with the sheets turned down, and a side table with a pitcher of wine and two cups. The walls were decorated with etchings that depicted naked Silvan elf-maidens bathing in forest pools or frolicking in sun-dappled clearings. In a place of honor hung a rather gaudy tapestry whose subject was an image of Elu Thingol smiling indulgently at a silver-haired child holding a pet squirrel. A gilt-painted plaque at the foot proclaimed: _'To my dear great-grandnephew on the occasion of his eleventh Begetting Day.'_ Elrond winced.

"Hmm," said Celebrían, looking about the room, "I've never been up here before. It's awfully empty. Daddy must have moved his tools out for the War and not had a chance to bring them back."

"Yes, that must be it," said Elrond tactfully. He cast about for another topic of conversation. "Your mother really seems fond of Amroth. I suppose we'll be hearing a betrothal announcement soon." He punctuated this last with a sigh.

Celebrían echoed the sigh. "It seems inevitable. I don't want to disappoint _Nana_ , but kissing Amroth would be like . . . like kissing my brother." She paused. "Do you know what I really want, Ronneth? I don't want to have to find a suitable husband and be a perfect little princess daughter anymore. In fact, lately I've been so confused."

"Confused? About what?"

She gave him a look that managed to be both hopeful and unhappy. "I . . . I . . ." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ronneth. I have to go. I'm just not in the mood to sing tonight."

"That's all right, we've practiced enough already," he said to the disappearing top of her head as she descended the ladder. "You sang like a Vanya when I first met you. You don't need me. You never did," he finished, as she was long past hearing him.

He stood at the window and watched her slender form go out of sight among the trees. With a heart like lead, he sat down on the bed and stared at the untouched wine.

"Oh, who cares?" he whispered and poured himself a cup. He sat drinking while the light outside deepened into full dark and the full moon rose. And on the other side of the pond, two figures joined into one silhouette, continued their tango.

* * *

To be continued . . .


	5. Revelations

"Nice try, Randiriel, but it will never work."

Thranduil caught the last of the three objects he was juggling and stowed it under his arm. "But why?"

"First of all, they're good beasts. We all know they'd never harm you. Second, one of them is a hedgehog."

"I could only find two porcupines," said Thranduil with a frown. "And have you noticed that this place is crawling with _Gelyd_? They're not exactly canny in their woodcraft --" he paused at the sour look on Elrond's face -- "ah, present company excluded. I hoped the distinction would go unremarked."

"It will definitely go unremarked," Elrond said. "It will take more than two live porcupines and a hedgehog to distract them from your bosom. What are you using this time? They look spectacular."

"Gourds," replied Thranduil. "It was all I could find. They hurt like a demon banging against my chest."

"Well, mind you don't let them dry out, or you'll be accompanying yourself with maracas every time you juggle."

Thranduil was about to answer back when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Ladies, are you decent?"

Elrond pitched his voice high. "Yes, we are, Mistress Aiwen." He turned to Thranduil and silently mouthed, ' _Why is she coming here in person?'_

Thranduil shrugged and hid his porcupine inside his voluminous sleeve. "Come in, Mistress Aiwen."

She looked around at the multitude of flowers and gave a sniff. "Girls, I came to let you know that a gentleman has requested your presence immediately."

"But what about the show?" said Elrond.

"We'll postpone the show until you're free again." She patted a bulging purse on her belt. "Thirty silver coins are worth a short delay."

Thranduil's eyes widened, and Elrond nodded. "Whatever you say, Mistress."

"Splendid. A footman will conduct you."

"What is going on?" Thranduil whispered as the two of them followed the footman along the _Mallorn_ -lined avenues of Caras Galadhon.

"My guess is that Lord Celeborn wants to try a threesome this time," Elrond quipped.

"I'm not enough for him," said Thranduil in a tone so forlorn that Elrond had to hide his grin.

They came to a stop beside a curving staircase over which hung a banner that proclaimed, " _Mae Govannen, Lovers of Noldorin Gemsmithery!_ " in elegant tengwar.

"That's a very small _talan_ ," Thranduil said, looking upward.

"It is a very exclusive society," replied the footman.

Meanwhile, Elrond spied the tail end of a long white train trailing out of sight in the direction of the palace and felt a moment of compassion for the poor elven-laundress responsible for removing those grass stains.

"Up you go, ladies," said the footman. "My job is done." He turned and left them.

Elrond started up the steps. "Do you think I'll get any gems? I'm not really fond of white ones. I hope I get them in colors."

Thranduil gave him a dirty look and muttered a _Laegren_ suggestion that was both rude and anatomically impossible.

The two of them entered the _talan_ , and a figure stepped out of the shadows, fingering his beard. "Hello, ladies. It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Huitho!" Elrond exclaimed. "Círdan!"

Thranduil drew the porcupine out of his sleeve and brandished it menacingly.

"Oh, please," Círdan said wearily. "You're not fooling anyone with that, 'Randiriel'. It's a good beast and would never quill me, even if you did toss it. Set the poor thing down."

Slowly, Thranduil lowered the porcupine to the floor, where it scuttled off and disappeared under a table.

"What do you want, Círdan?" Elrond said.

"To begin with, the two of you could have chosen more original names to disguise yourselves. You boys disappoint me." He sighed. "But I digress. All I want to do is have a little talk."

"Thranduil and I don't want any trouble," Elrond said. "We just want to get home and live our lives in peace. We mean you and Isildur no harm."

"Yes," said Thranduil, nodding earnestly. "Our lips are sealed."

"Well, about Isildur, there has been a change of plan. Poor Isildur was heading for home when he met with an unfortunate accident."

"Home?" said Elrond. "I thought he was tarrying in Gondor to instruct his nephew in Kingly craft."

Círdan examined his fingernails. "That was his intent until I sent him a message by carrier pigeon warning him that his wife had grown bored in his absence and was filling her idle hours -- and Elbereth knows what else -- with a Nandorin minstrel. It's a fortunate thing for Master Lindir that Isildur and his party never made it past an orcish ambush near the Gladden Fields."

Elrond and Thranduil looked at each other and gulped. Had Mistress Aiwen's troupe not decided to divert to Lothlórien, they might have found themselves with Isildur's knife in their backs or caught in the same ambush.

"Yes, it's very sad," Círdan continued. "My one regret is that he made a break for it, tried to swim the Anduin, and lost a certain bit of jewelry off his finger."

Elrond's eyes widened. "So . . .?"

"Indeed. It's gone. Kaput. Pffft." He paused to let the news sink in. "No great loss. I never liked the thing in the first place, and in the hands of an idiot, who knows what mischief might have ensued? It's lost, and best it stays that way. I've just been telling my fellow Ringbearer that it's safe to resume wearing and wielding the Three."

"I'm happy for you," Thranduil said. "Now, can I just go home and forget about all of this?"

"If only it were that simple," Círdan said. "Just in case you two lads think the balance of power has shifted here, that you two could spill some secrets and cause me some embarrassment, I want to remind you that we have one another by the short hairs."

"I'd never think of breathing a word about this," Thranduil insisted.

"Good, see that you don't, because I don't think your subjects would be overjoyed to hear that their new king has been wearing a dress and whoring himself out to the Lady Galadriel's husband for the past two fortnights."

"But . . . but . . ." Thranduil spluttered, "we've only talked!"

Círdan laughed and reached out to fondle the new necklace of white gems Thranduil had received that morning. "Who in their right mind would believe that, with this little bauble proclaiming, ' _Touch me not, for His Lordship's I am'_?"

Thranduil blushed furiously and made no answer.

"I see we understand each other. Silence for silence?"

Thranduil nodded.

Círdan turned to leave.

"Wait," said Elrond, "what about me? I don't want to spend the next Age looking over my shoulder."

"Oh, come now, Elrond," said Círdan, laying an avuncular hand on Elrond's back. "I wouldn't harm a single hair on the head of my favorite pupil. I need you alive to foster the new young King of the Dúnedain at Imladris. And besides, I have a feeling you won't want to be making any hasty accusations, no matter how much you loved your cousin."

Círdan turned and tossed a rope out the window over to the next tree. "I think I'll be leaving by an alternate exit. I don't trust my fellow Ringbearer farther than I can toss her, beguiling as she is. Good-bye, lads, and remember, it's nothing personal, just business."

"He's a real piece of work," Thranduil said on the way back down the staircase. "I'm steering clear of him from now on, even if it means staying here in Ennor until _Ardhon Meth_ and never sailing."

At the bottom, they crossed path with two servants carrying a gigantic confection of _lembas_ with _'Happy Begetting Day O Shipwright!'_ written on the side in fondant and covered in an unbelievable multitude of candles that were, fortunately for the air quality in the Golden Wood, unlit. Out of the top of the cake a bow protruded and the sound of heavy breathing came from inside.

"Hurry," said Thranduil, "it's almost time for the show."

Elrond nodded and put his hand into his pocket. "Why, that shaggy-faced son of a balrog!" he exclaimed.

"What?"

"Círdan is what!" Elrond held out his palm to reveal a ring with a bright blue gemstone. "He must have slipped this into my pocket just now. It's Vilya!"

"So?"

"Don't you see? Now he can say I'm the one who murdered Gil-galad for his Ring of Power!"

"Hard luck for you. But as my father always used to say, when life gives you sour cherries, make wine."

"Ach, you Silvans," Elrond grumbled. "Is there anything you won't turn into strong drink?"

"Very little," Thranduil replied.

They heard music up ahead, from the wide swath of lawn where they held the nightly concerts.

"They've started without us," Thranduil said. "For pity's sake, Elrond, wipe off that woeful look and put on a smile."

They slipped in from the edges, found their seats and took up their instruments. "That didn't take as long as we had expected," said Gwaeloth with a smirk. Elrond ignored her.

Just as Mistress Aiwen was about to raise her baton for the next song, Elrond stood up and cleared his throat. "Lords and ladies, there will be a brief addition to our programme tonight. A young woman from this very realm would like to entertain you with her considerable musical talents." Ignoring Mistress Aiwen's narrowing eyes, he hurried on. "So may I introduce the Lady Celebrían Celeborniel, my partner in song."

He held out his hand and Celebrían rose from her seat to join him. At the mention of Galadriel's daughter, Mistress Aiwen wiped the scowl from her face and replaced it with a diplomatic smile.

"I didn't think you were going to make it tonight," Celebrían whispered as she took her place beside him amid a wave of puzzled murmurs from the audience. "I was afraid you had abandoned me."

"Never," he whispered back. He turned to Thranduil. "Randiriel, can you play the accompaniment to . . ." He bent his head to Thranduil's ear.

"In my sleep," replied Thranduil and struck the first chord.

Elrond pitched his voice high but retained an artificial huskiness to simulate the tones of a woman trying to sound like a man and began to sing. " _When Spring unfolds the beechen leaf . . ._ "

Smiles of recognition appeared on the faces of the crowd. Galadriel frowned and mouthed, "Rustic ..."

Elrond continued on with the first verse and ended with, " _Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is fair!_ "

Celebrían flashed him frightened doe-eyes and for a moment, he feared that she would be unable to go on, but when he took her hand and gave her a smile she returned his smile and began, " _When Spring is come to garth and field . . ._ "

The clarity of her voice brought gasps of pleasure from the onlookers. Galadriel's frown changed to a beam of pride, and she gave Amroth a jab in the ribs with her elbow. Amroth nodded and stared ahead with a fixed smile.

But what struck Elrond was the look of innocent beauty on Celebrían's face. His heart swelled with longing for her, and he let it seep into his voice as he sang of summer with green, cool woodland halls and wind in the west. Her verse answered him, with song of lush harvest and orchard ripe with hanging fruit. " _I'll linger here beneath the Sun, because my land is best._ "

And that was how it would be, he told himself as he launched into his final verse, telling of winter, with its fallen trees and starless nights. There was no longer any reason to stay now that he and Thranduil had reached an uneasy agreement with Círdan. The two of them could steal some trousers and head for home.

Celebrían would linger in this enchanted land of eternal spring and full moons every night, while he, Elrond, would return to his duties at Imladris, living single until the End of All Things. And he would never forget her.

" _When Winter comes, and singing ends; when darkness falls at last . ._."

While Celebrían sang her final solo verse, Elrond watched, memorizing the planes of her face, storing the vision away for the long lonely future. Celebrían finished, " _I'll look for thee and wait for thee until we meet again: Together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain,_ " and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to begin the final verse that the two would sing together.

Then, in the deep recesses of Elrond's mind spoke a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Thranduil: _'Don't be such an idiot.'_ Instead of singing, he took her in his arms and kissed her full on the lips.

Thranduil missed a chord. Gasps -- this time of shock -- arose from the crowd, which only grew when Celebrían threw her arms around him and returned the kiss with fervor, kicking one foot up behind her. Galadriel let out a little squeak and collapsed unconscious into Amroth's lap. Amroth immediately motioned for servants and began to wave a phial under her nose.

"I love you, Celebrían."

"I love you too, Ronneth."

"Uh . . . about the 'Ronneth' part," Elrond began, before Galadriel snapped upright again.

"Who in the name of Morgoth are you to be groping my innocent daughter, you unnatural . . . thing?" she demanded.

"I'll tell you who I am," said Elrond. He ran a finger through his hair to straighten out his side-curls and reached into his pocket. "I am Elrond Halfelven, Master of Imladris." He paused to grin after emphasizing the humble title of 'Master'. Then he held up his middle finger, upon which sparkled Vilya. "I am your fellow Ringbearer, thanks to the gift of my royal cousin Ereinion before he went off to his death. And I am your new son-in-law, _Naneth_!"

Galadriel clasped her chest and slumped into Amroth's lap again.

"You will have me, won't you?" said Elrond softly to Celebrían. "I probably should have asked."

She merely laughed. "You have no idea what I have been thinking these past few weeks. Now I understand. Of course I will have you. I love you no matter who and what you are."

"Even if it means giving up being Queen of Lothlórien to be just Mistress of Imladris?"

"I suppose I'm not very bright -- at least that's what _Nana_ says."

"Who cares what _Nana_ says, sugar?" said Celeborn. "Welcome to the family, son!"

With a careful glance at Galadriel, who seemed to be staying out longer this time, Celeborn sidled close to Thranduil and fondled his right chest. "What about you and I, my sweet? Love seems to be in the air tonight."

"Here," said Thranduil, reaching into his bodice and pulling out the gourd. "Take this, since you seem to be so very fond of it. Haul it back to your 'workshop' and knock yourself out!" He put the gourd into Celeborn's hand.

"In fact," Thranduil went on to tell the startled elf-lord, "while we're at it, you can take back your bracelet and your necklace. I accepted them under false pretenses."

"What false pretenses? So you're flat-chested. Many lovely elf-maidens are."

"I'm not a maiden. I spent the last seven years serving the army."

"That's all right," said Celeborn blandly. "I forgive you."

"You don't know me at all. I have a job that will take me far from here, and I curse all the time."

Celeborn looked to where Amroth and a knot of servants were still waving phials under his wife's nose. "That makes no difference. I'm quite used to that kind of thing. You've yet to provide me with any impediment to our continued friendship."

Thranduil uttered a strangled growl of frustration and ripped his gown from bodice to hem, sending the remaining gourd flying amid a shower of lace and velvet. He stood there before them all, as naked as the day he was born. "I'm a man, curse it!"

The chorus of shocked gasps from the onlookers made the furor over Elrond's kiss seem like the wind-breaking of a gnat. Galadriel, who had finally come around for the second time, let out a loud squawk and pitched back over.

Ignoring his prostrate wife, Celeborn gave Thranduil's naked torso a quick once over and smiled a cryptic smile. "Well, nobody's perfect."

* * *

 

And they all lived happily ever after. Elrond and Celebrían married, had three children with their father's dark hair, and presided together over Rivendell for the better part of an Age.

Gwaeloth accompanied the newlyweds to Imladris, where, in time, she met and married fellow musician Lindir. Their signature version of _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_ was always a great favorite in the Hall of Fire on convivial evenings.

Lalie and Eleniel retired from the music business. They settled down in a shared _talan_ in Caras Galadhon, where they were widely cited as an example of chastity, as each of them turned away a succession of disappointed and baffled suitors.

With her minstrel troupe disbanded, Mistress Aiwen remained in Lothlórien as well. By a hitherto unsuspected husband whom no one ever met, as his visits to the Golden wood seemed both brief and infrequent, she gave birth to three silver-haired sons. In time, these three brothers rose high in the favors of Lord Celeborn.

If Amroth was disappointed by the loss of Celebrían, he disguised it well. He ruled Lothlórien for half an Age, until he found true love at last, got silly over her, and drowned, thus saving himself the discomfort of a long sea voyage.

Galadriel and Celeborn took over rulership of the Golden Wood, taking a page from their modest son-in-law and styling themselves Lord and Lady. In time, she diminished and went into the West and remained Galadriel. It is unknown if the Valar found that to be a good thing or not. Citing family loyalty, Celeborn took his own sweet time joining her.

Every year throughout the Third Age, on the anniversary of Elrond and Celebrían's betrothal, a silver-clad messenger arrived at Thranduil's gates bearing a bouquet of red roses. And once an ennin, on a night with a full moon, two tall, pale-haired figures met in the woods south of the _Men i Naugrim_ , where they could be seen clasped in a silent tango until the first tentative birdsong broke the silence and the grey light of dawn lit the eastern sky.

* * * * * * *

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _Gelyd_ : Plural of Golodh, a Noldo  
>  _Laegren_ : Green-elven, Nandorin
> 
> The duet that Elrond and Celebrían sing is from The Song of the Ent and the Entwife, JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Notes:**
> 
> * _Ain Melir Den Urui_ : Sindarin which translates roughly to 'some like it hot' according to the incomparable Darth Fingon. Darth warns me against using it, as "it's pretty bad" but since so is this story, it seems entirely appropriate.
> 
> " _When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown; When straw is gold, and ear is white --_ From the Song of the Ent and the Entwife, JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers
> 
>  **Other Translations:**  
>  _Golodh_ : Noldo  
>  _Golodhrim_ : Sindarin for the Noldor  
>  _Laegrim_ : Green-elves, Nandor  
>  _Rodyn_ : the Valar and Maiar inclusive  
>  _Huitho_ : the Sindarin F-word  
>  _Ada_ : Dad


End file.
